


The Trickster and the Valkyrie

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Gen, Magic, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I appreciate your concern,” Loki replied. “But you needn’t worry about me. You don’t even know who I am.”</p><p>The bartender shrugged. “Well, maybe I just worry about everybody.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Sam Wilson. And you are?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trickster and the Valkyrie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hekkenfeldt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekkenfeldt/gifts).



> I know it's not Loki/Sam porn, but it does feature Loki thinking Sam is pretty and being intrigued by him. Hope you like it!

“Midgardians,” Loki muttered, tipping back his head and swallowing his whiskey in one burning gulp. He cast his eyes around the bar, which was crowded with people vying for each other’s fleeting attention and affection. “So dull. All the same.”

“What was that, man?” called the bartender. “One more of the same?”

Loki was about to snap at him when he remembered that the young man with a smile brighter than his eyes was the only one in the bar whom he’d allowed to interact with him. That was only because he wanted a drink; Mother had taught him long ago that it wasn’t fair to steal mortal liquor.

Loki nodded and waved him over. “Just leave the bottle,” he instructed in a low voice, knowing the enchantment would let him hear just fine despite the din.

The man hesitated, his gap-toothed smile drooping just a hair. “Are you sure? It’s a three hundred dollar—”

“I’m sure,” Loki said, a little tersely.

The bartender bit his bottom lip, and Loki rolled his eyes. He pulled a wad of American money from his suit pocket — Mother had given no admonishments regarding mortal cash — and thumped it down.

“Satisfied?” he asked, grabbing the bottle’s neck. He splashed more whiskey into the glass and stared down at his reflection in the amber fluid.

“Are you okay?” asked the bartender.

When Loki didn’t reply, the man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. Loki grimaced — the wooden surface must be filthy, he thought — but didn’t say anything. Instead, he opted for sipping his drink and waiting for the bartender to go away.

He did, as other patrons shouted orders at him. Loki finished one drink, and then another, and another. Mortal liquor didn’t inebriate him, but he liked the taste, and eventually he started feeling a bit better.

But he was still surrounded by Midgardians, and he was still bored.

Why he’d thought Midgard would be preferable to Asgard, Loki wasn’t sure. It had probably been foolish and hasty to flit off to another realm, but even Muspelheim seemed preferable to the insufferable ego fest that was the Royal Palace in the week leading up to Thor’s coronation.

Father wouldn’t have wanted him to leave — he kept insisting that Loki was needed, which Loki had known for a long time simply wasn’t true — so Loki hadn’t told him. He wasn’t planning to stay long in any case; he’d left Asgard only a few hours ago and planned to return before Father even noticed he was gone. If he did, which Loki doubted, and if he was upset, which Loki doubted even more, Mother would explain.

He scanned the crowd of mortals, who were oblivious to the presence of a god amongst them, and set down his glass. Surely there was something else he could be doing to entertain himself.

He started by turning a bowl of peanuts into a bowl of beetles. The resultant commotion was enough to make him chuckle and had the added benefit of clearing out some of the patrons. Thinning the herd, Loki thought with a smirk.

Two drinks after the beetles, Loki noticed a man pestering a woman to dance. She refused him three times, at which point he grabbed her by the waist and tried to tug her forward. She started batting at his hands, and Loki decided to intervene, flicking a finger in their direction. The man’s feet shrunk, just enough to upset his balance so that when she shoved him away again, he rocked backwards and smashed his head off a bar stool.

The bartender was hunched over the man in a heartbeat, asking him questions and inspecting his head for wounds. Loki waved a hand again, restoring the man’s feet to their normal size. He raised his glass to toast the man sarcastically when he got back on his feet.

The bartender walked him out, then returned to lean on the bar in front of Loki again. “Weird night,” he commented, shaking his head.

“Indeed,” said Loki unconcernedly.

“How about you? You doing okay?” the bartender asked.

“I appreciate your concern,” Loki replied. “But you needn’t worry about me. You don’t even know who I am.”

The man shrugged. “Well, maybe I just worry about everybody.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Sam Wilson. And you are?”

Loki assessed him. He had warm dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and his sharp chin was softened somewhat by a dusting of facial hair around his mouth. All in all, he was quite pleasing, Loki decided.

“Leif,” he said, shaking Sam’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam replied, and he sounded honest about it.

Loki was intrigued — Sam’s hand was cool and calloused, the hand of a man who knew more than indoor work, and his grip was firm. Sam smiled at him, and Loki found himself smiling back.

A drunken fool chose that moment to holler for Sam’s attention, so he turned away with an apologetic look. Loki watched him, entranced by the way he moved. For a tall, stocky man, he moved with an elegance that was never lethargic. There was a sharpness about him, in his eyes, like he was aware of everyone and everything; he reminded Loki of a bird of prey. He wondered how Sam had come to occupy a position so obviously beneath him.

“Show me your true self,” he whispered.

Before him, Sam grew even taller. His white t-shirt gleamed as it extended into a robe and gold armor sprang from nowhere to blanket his chest and forearms. Enormous feathery wings unfurled from between his shoulder blades. He turned to greet a customer, his wings passing harmlessly through solid obstacles, and Loki’s breath caught in his throat. Sam’s face was fierce, lit with determination and something like joy. When Sam shook the customer’s hand, Loki knew that, if he wanted to, Sam could lift him, could choose to take him off the battlefield and carry him to Valhalla.

Loki stared at the Valkyrie with wonder — he’d never seen one up close — then he let the vision fade. As the last trace of his wings disappeared, Sam gave Loki a flat smile, like he sensed that he’d been caught out. Loki couldn’t help but pity him; Sam was a higher being stuck here on Midgard, as Loki, a king, was stuck being treated as Thor’s inferior.

Around him, the bar was getting busy again. Loki wiggled his fingers a few times; people’s cell phones chimed with messages telling them to meet friends elsewhere, and the crowd started to disperse, little by little. Loki continued to sip his whiskey, watching Sam, letting Sam catch him watching, pretending not to notice when Sam was watching him.

Eventually, there was enough of a lull that Sam came over and leaned on the bar in front of him again. His eyes flicked over Loki, taking in the well-cut suit and muted green tie. Loki smiled; he knew that look.

Sure enough, when Sam spoke, his tone was flirtatious. “So. Leif, huh? Like you fell off a tree?”

“Not quite,” Loki replied.

“Or maybe you fell out of the sky?” Sam guessed, then he winced. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so cheesy.”

“You’re not far off the mark,” Loki admitted, thinking of his exit from the Bifrost, which had been somewhat less than graceful.

“Am I supposed to ask where your wings went?” Sam asked a moment later, in a strange voice.

Loki studied him over the rim of his glass. A minute tension had crept across Sam’s shoulders, and his smile looked a little fixed.

“Only if you tell me where yours are,” Loki said at last, and Sam went completely still.

“How did you—?”

“How long have you been grounded?” Loki asked.

Sam blinked, his mouth agape. “A month,” he replied with obvious effort. “I think. Time’s been kind of wonky since I got here.”

Loki nodded sympathetically; mortal methods of timekeeping were baffling, after all. He leaned forward. “And what sin did you commit to warrant such banishment?”

Sam’s eyes were downcast. He didn’t reply.

“I could intercede,” Loki offered. “I could get you back to the battlefield.”

Sam looked up, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t want to go back,” he said. “I chose this.”

“Why?” Loki asked, the question coming out more sharply than he’d intended.

Sam shrugged and looked around the bar. “People giving me orders, it’s familiar, you know? No life and death here, though, so it’s easier. Keeps me busy.”

“But you could be doing so much more,” Loki protested. “You belong on the battlefield. Mead-bearing is for Valhalla — that’s only half a Valkyrie’s duty.”

Sam stared at him a moment, then a laugh burst out of his chest. “Dude, I think maybe it’s time to cut you off.”

“Dude?” Loki repeated, but Sam had already turned away and was reaching for a bottle of tequila to make a drink for the young woman on the stool beside his.

Loki took another swallow of his whiskey, annoyed. This man was nothing but a mortal, no better than the rest; how could Loki have so misread him? Mother always said that magic was fickle, but the true self spell had never failed him before.

“A Valkyrie,” Sam called over his shoulder. “That’s like an angel, right?”

“Hardly,” Loki scoffed.

“An angel of death?” asked Sam, suddenly close to Loki again.

Loki was tempted to cloak himself and disappear into another corner of the earth, but he pursed his lips instead. “More like rebirth,” he told Sam, still a little snippy. “The Valkyrie choose fallen warriors to bring to the afterlife.”

Sam nodded, his eyes on the bar once more. “They save them?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of saving,” Loki replied softly, honestly.

“Then maybe I am a Valkyrie,” Sam mumbled. He looked up. “US Air Force Pararescue,” he clarified. “So that others may live,” he added, his mouth twisting bitterly. “They didn’t exactly train me in what to do after that part, though.”

Loki nodded, then tilted his glass in Sam’s direction. “Drink?”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “That’s not the answer.”

“The Valkyrie bring mead to the once warriors in Valhalla,” Loki continued, surprising himself. “When the warriors are not preparing for Ragnorök, there is peace and feasting.”

“And Ragnorök is what, exactly?” asked Sam.

“The end of all things,” said Loki. He poured more whiskey to stop himself from adding, _including me_.

“That sounds bad,” Sam commented.

Loki laughed outright at the oversimplification. Only a mortal could be so stupid and yet so correct at the same.

Sam grinned at Loki’s laughter as he tucked dirty glasses under the bar. The establishment was emptying more quickly now.

“But the Valkyrie, they help fighters?” Sam went on a minute later, a little more seriously.

“Once fighters,” Loki corrected. “Retired.”

“Veterans,” Sam mused.

“You might say that, yes.” Loki set his glass down and pushed it away, suddenly weary of the conversation.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly as Loki stood. “You heading out?”

Loki nodded and slid the bottle back in Sam’s direction. “Here,” he said. “I don’t need this after all.”

“But you paid—”

“Pay my tab and keep the rest,” Loki instructed. “I’ve no use for it. In fact—” He pulled out more bills and set them down. “Take this and get out of here. You can do better work elsewhere.”

Sam hesitated, then pocketed the cash. “Thanks, man. You want me to call you a cab or something?”

Loki shook his head. “I’ll get home safely.” He stuck out his hand again. “It was nice getting to know you, Sam, Son of Wil. May we meet again.”

Sam shook his hand and nodded. “Have a good night, Leif.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you in Valhalla,” Loki added, turning away.

He had meant it sarcastically, but when he glanced back, Sam was smiling at him, and his eyes seemed lighter than they had all night. Loki headed outside, to a secluded street, and put the man out of his mind as he called for Heimdell to take him back to Asgard.

During the trip he was already thinking of what the next few days would bring him. Thor would soon be king; surely Loki could find something to do that would muck up his dear brother’s first few days on the throne.

**Author's Note:**

> Valkyrie (from [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valkyrie)):
> 
>  _Valkyrie_ comes from two Old Norse words: the noun _valr_ (referring to the slain on the battlefield) and the verb _kjósa_ (meaning “to choose”). Together, they mean “chooser of the slain”. 
> 
> Selecting among half of those who die in battle, the Valkyries bring their chosen to the afterlife hall of the slain, Valhalla, which is ruled by Odin. There, the deceased warriors become einherjar (“once fighters”). When they are not preparing for the events of Ragnorök, the Valkyries bring them mead.


End file.
